


kiss with a fist

by brophigenia



Series: the one where gansey and kavinsky are sexually antagonistic toward each other (aka the gangsey/dream pack turf war series) [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Banter, Brief Mention of Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Face Punching, Gansey On Fire, Light Masochism, M/M, Punching, Sexualized Violence, gansey is a total snob, somebody get this man a handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-12 22:52:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21233897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: “Wait up,Richard.”Gansey did not recognize the voice offhand but he did recognize the inflection, the tone. They were all the same.They,meaning Kavinsky’s frothing-at-the-mouth sycophants, his low-rent Cerberus, a three-headed mutt with sharp teeth and poor decision making skills.Skov, Swan, Jiang.(AKA, Gansey gets a good punching, with sexy results.)





	kiss with a fist

**Author's Note:**

> so my darling @ bearb1tch sent me an ask that read as follows: How about some Gansey getting punched by Skov/Swan/Jiang after it gets out what he said about K. (About him not mattering.) 
> 
> and I said to myself, 'huh. I can work with that.' 
> 
> title from florence + the machine. cut lyrics from the neighborhood and cobra starship.

_ it hurts, but  _

_ i won’t fight you _

_ *** _

_ “Ay _ , Triple Dick.” The call came from behind him, and though Gansey did not recognize the voice offhand he did recognize the inflection, the tone. Every vein in his body went chilly, blue blood up and patience run thin. “Wait up,  _ Richard.” _ A different voice, but that didn’t matter. They were all the same. 

_ They,  _ meaning Kavinsky’s frothing-at-the-mouth sycophants, his low-rent Cerberus, a three-headed mutt with sharp teeth and poor decision making skills. 

“Jiang. Skov. Swan.” He greeted coolly, turning to face them only because his father had always instilled in him the necessity of never turning your back to the rabble. That was how the guillotines were created. “How…  _ nice  _ to see you.” It was a sneer worthy of a prince, inimitable. 

He did not like to be this person— he preferred being the person he was around Blue, around Adam, around Ronan, Noah, the women of 300 Fox Way. He did not like to be this, but Richard Campbell Gansey III knew better than most that blood  _ (breeding)  _ would always win out in the end. 

_ “Nice.”  _ Skov sneered back, as well-bred as Gansey with his mouth full of enough Vermont to make even Dick Gansey III feel like he’d run afoul of some rotary club or another. “Swan, he says it’s  _ nice  _ to see us.” The words were drawled and he did not take his eyes, ice blue, off of Gansey for a second. 

Swan, the tallest and broadest of Kavinsky and his pack, was straightened from his usual lax posture into something more predatory, emphasizing every last square inch of him. His teeth, when he bared them, were almost  _ too  _ white. “S’nice to see him, too. Less legwork for us.” He punctuated the comment with a cracking of his knuckles, pointed and cliche and ridiculous and  _ terrifying.  _

“Oh, come on.” Jiang said dismissively, then, smoking a cigarette and looking the most impassive of all four of them, as if the darkened parking lot outside of Monmouth was a waiting area at the DMV on a Tuesday afternoon instead of the scene of a crime-to-be. “He’s too pretty to punch. Look at that fucking  _ face.” _ He gestured at Gansey with the hand not holding onto his Marlboro Black, illustrative and leering and disinterested. Jiang was the only one of them that Gansey was truly intimidated by; he was a man of dichotomies and contradictions. The kind of man whose actions you couldn’t predict with any sort of certainty. 

(The most dangerous kind.) 

“Hmmm.” Skov hummed, considering, and they began to circle Gansey, slowly, like a pack of starving, canny-eyed hyenas. 

He knew he ought to be afraid, but Gansey felt his blood rushing and his adrenaline going high and only looked forward to the inevitable blows, the chance to stretch himself out of this suffocating box of a life and  _ hurt.  _ He was tired of hurting only on the inside, in his own mind. He was tired of being tired. He wanted to be  _ awake.  _

“It  _ would  _ be a shame to fuck up that mouth.” Swan agreed, as if Gansey were meant to be afraid of what they might decide to do with him that  _ wasn’t  _ punching. 

“Try it.” He dared, eyes bright as new pennies. Thinking of watching Ronan and Declan shirtless in their yard, strapped into boxing gloves, circling each other on light feet looking for weaknesses while Niall sat beside him on the porch and called out directives. He’d made Ronan teach him, too— late at night in one of the outbuildings, hands up shielding his face while he dodged punch after punch. Ronan had never enjoyed hitting him the way he enjoyed hitting his older brother— he winced more than Gansey each time his gloves connected with foreign skin. 

_ “Try it, _ he says.” Skov barked, and Swan laughed. Only Jiang remained silent, and Gansey was unable to track him as well as the others, resisting the urge to spin around to keep Jiang and his ominous silence in sight at all times. 

“You know why we’re here?” Swan asked him, and Gansey rolled his eyes, scoffing. 

“Presumably for your…  _ leader.”  _ The word was pure vitriol, taking the place of a thousand curses. It tasted like fire and brimstone in Gansey’s mouth. He was  _ burning  _ for it. 

“You’re just so fucking  _ disrespectful,  _ Dick. Trying to give you a fair goddamn trial here and you’re not making it easy.” Skov complained, though his wolffish grin dared Gansey to keep going. To dig his own grave. 

“Like I said,” he responded, and gave a grin of his own, like pearl-hilted knives.  _ “Try it.”  _

“Sounds like you  _ want _ it.” Jiang commented, finally, with just an edge of mockery that made Gansey’s cheeks go hot.  _ “Bad.”  _

If he was a Lynch, Gansey reflected, this would be the moment he spat on their shoes and then started swinging. 

As it was, he was a Virginia Gansey, and he couldn’t back down if he tried. 

“Is  _ that  _ what it sounds like?” He mused, and his stomach was swooping as he kept his mask of civility in place by a thread. 

“Hold him.” Jiang ordered, and with a curse and a shout Gansey found himself  _ held,  _ both his arms pinned back by Swan’s bulk. Unable to free himself. 

(Half-unwilling to even  _ try.) _

He swore viciously at all three of them, Swan at his back and Skov and Jiang right before him. His crew-won muscles were useless for the kind of hold he was in, as if he were a butterfly pinned to a board.  _ Useless.  _

“Such  _ language,  _ Dicky.” Swan tutted, hot in his ear. “Hold still and  _ be good.” _ This was punctuated by a slight thrust of Swan’s hips against his ass, and Gansey winced at the feeling even as his cock twitched, half-hard, in his khakis. 

“You first, Skovron.” Jiang said with a gracious sweep of his hand, lighting another cigarette as he watched Skov loosen his tie and shrug out of his blazer, leaving it in a crumpled heap on the concrete. He stepped up to Gansey like a pitcher stepping up to the mound, all even breaths and intense focus. 

The punch was quick and harder than Gansey had expected, a right-cross that rang his bell, leaving his eyes shimmering for a moment. He could  _ feel  _ the bruise rising instantaneously, licking at his own lips as he stared off in the direction that Skov’s fist had sent him towards. 

Everything was ringing, shimmering; Skov and Swan took advantage of his momentary state of shock to switch places, Skov’s lean form just as effective as Swan’s had been to keep him still, trapped, pliant. 

Swan snapped his fingers until Gansey looked at him, trying to rearrange his face into its challenging expression from before. 

(He’d forgotten what it was like to have someone try to  _ hurt  _ you; he’d tried to forget biting his lip and jerking off furiously in the bathroom that the Lynch brothers shared, thinking of how Ronan had hit him like it was an accident. Thinking of how good it felt, not to be treated like glass. Like another priceless ornament to signal his parents’ wealth and connections to their social circle.) 

Swan’s punch was harder, straighter, leaving the taste of blood in Gansey’s mouth even as he ran his tongue over each of his teeth to make sure they weren’t loosened by the blow. He had nothing smart to say about it, only a smug sort of smirk to shoot at Gansey. 

Jiang stepped in to his space, close enough to kiss, Gansey barely held up between Skov and Swan, an overgrown ragdoll full of pain and  _ lust.  _ Shameful, perverse, terrible  _ lust.  _

“You’re the one who doesn’t matter, Dick.” Jiang murmured in his ear, running the bridge of his nose over the antique cut-crystal line of Gansey’s jaw. Too-soft, too-good, too much, not enough. “Remember that.” His punch connected solidly with Gansey’s stomach, gold rings making the impact that much more  _ hard,  _ knocking the wind and sense from Gansey quick enough that it was almost like an orgasm, itself. The feeling of  _ release.  _ Of losing control. 

“Good talk.” Half-delirious and dropped unceremoniously onto the concrete, Gansey couldn’t even tell which of them had spoken. Maybe all three. They are all the same. All of them  _ Kavinsky’s.  _

(Oh, but Gansey wanted to  _ come,  _ desperately hard, probably leaking through his boxer briefs.) 

“Tell Lynch we said  _ hey.”  _ With that parting taunt they were gone, piled into Swan’s Supra, roaring off into the night as if on the wings of a flame-breathed dragon, all red underbody LED lights and screaming tires. 

“Fuck.” Gansey swore, sore all over and  _ wanting.  _ Wanting Ronan, or Blue, or Adam. Anyone whose skin he could press against his own, anyone who would quiet the buzzing in his head, smother out the flames rising in him. He had no time to be  _ this,  _ the Gansey who made decisions based on  _ want  _ and not  _ need.  _ The Gansey who would touch Ronan like he wanted to, who would hover his mouth over Blue’s close enough to feel like cheating death, who would breathe in the scent of Adam’s hair to keep safe in his chest for later when he was alone beneath the shower spray. 

“Fuck.” He sighed again, and spat out a mouthful of blood as he rose on unsteady feet to hobble into Monmouth, thankful that the BMW was gone so he could lick his wounds in private. 

***

_ this won’t hurt more  _

_ than a pinch.  _

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
